


On Stranger Tides

by Ophiras



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Building alliances, Elves for Sansa, F/M, Gen, I REGRET NOTHING, Magic, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Sansa charms everyone, The Drama, The breath of Eru is in their sails, clashing cultures, the fandom drove me to this because of the lack of Lotr/Got, the fluff
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-11
Updated: 2015-09-23
Packaged: 2018-04-20 06:43:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4777415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ophiras/pseuds/Ophiras
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The world was changed, they could feel it in the water and the earth, It was in the air. They thought they knew the world, but all of them were deceived. For there was another land hidden from their gaze. A new land unveils itself and the game sets sail to uncharted lands.  A wise man once said that there was much to the world that men could not begin to fathom. This was true indeed. All the free peoples of Middle Earth look on as a boat brings back mysterious news. But there are perhaps things better be left unearthed, as the Game is harsh and no one can be sure of its consequences.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Turbulent Waters

**Author's Note:**

> We must free ourselves of the hope that the sea will ever rest.  
> We must learn to sail in high winds.  
> -Aristotle Onassis

It was quiet, a rare occurrence lately. The room was steeped in shadows; only the thin threads of moonlight seeping through the slats of her windows gave form and shape for her eyes to play with as her thoughts wandered. It had been a particularly long day, as they so often were after the war—or rather wars and yet still Sansa lay awake, eyes turned towards the ceiling as she made a list of the things that had been done and still needed doing.

Repairs and improvements were well under way and would be for some time yet, even three years after the last of the skirmishes. Tower’s still needed mending, roofs needed redoing and walls repairing. When the Others had been marching south, when at last she had finally woken, gathered her courage and left the vale to retake the north—the first sight of her childhood home had left her staggered, it seemed an impossible task but none the less she had committed herself to the task, chipping away at it bit by bit.

Sansa had scavenged what she could of the burnt and blackened stone work, though it grieved her to see them just as it had to view rooms that had once held such life empty and bare. 'but needs must come before sentiment.' Something Sansa had learned in her own time, much to her sorrow and benefit.

Crumbling timbers that had lasted ages and doors that held a plethora of scratches and dents from before her time and during it were removed and replaced, taking their stories with them.

‘That brute Ramsey…” Sansa thought, not for the last time as her nails dug into her bed furs.

Thanks to his attentions, half the first keep had been collapsed when she arrived with forces from the Vale and those who had joined her force as she swept through the Riverlands. The great keep had been hobbled together with clumsy, untrained hands and the tower library was a steaming mess of decayed, moldering books. She had wanted to rebuild the home of her youth exactly as she held it in her heart, but there were things that could not be repaired—or replaced.

The Library Tower was razed, and instead a much stouter building was erected, becoming a hot bathing area—turning a disaster into something of use had become a form of art for her in those long days. ‘The new library foundation will be finished soon if the weather holds.’ The new structure would adjoin the maester’s turret along with a bridge, connecting the rookery and bell tower once more.

From dawn until dusk the courtyard rang with the sounds of masons, carpenters and blacksmiths hard at work with their trade while she went through the ledgers and stipends, accounting for each precious coin and grain at her household’s disposal, not even one could be wasted. ‘And then there is seeing to the small-folk and the lords and ladies alike. Not to mention the wildlings.’ It was no small task, seeking harmony between the three, and yet she found enjoyment in it.

None had thought the wildlings could, or would settle easily- and indeed there had been incidents with a select few, but generally they were of an accord. Some chose to keep to themselves out by The Gift, others had chosen to integrate throughout the northern holds. Though they claimed not to kneel, they followed the laws as well as anyone, and the north gained a valuable asset in able and willing hands.

Yet as she laid there, Sansa’s worries expanded far from her own holdings; nine kingdoms with a sea of bad blood between them did not easily come together when the majority of them were scrambling for power over the other.

In the first months that the Others and their wraiths breached the wall, every claimant to the Iron Throne, every reagent and their banners quickly came to the same conclusion the Night's Watch and the wildlings had; unite or die.

For a time, they set aside their differences coming to a fragile truce, but  truly it was a temporary stay of open aggression against one another. They were no closer to a lasting peace then they were when Joffrey, Robb and the two would be stag Kings had reigned.

‘Daenerys may sit where the iron throne was, but it’s no secret that Aegon begrudges her for it.’ There was a discourse between the two, and Sansa was sure Arianne Martell was doing her best to drive the wedge even further. Little and few of old noble houses held love for the Dragon Queen for she was fanatical, changing whatever she desired without considering the long term consequences.

‘But poor Jon.’ Her half-brother turned cousin, torn between the family he had and the family he could have had. He tried his best to soothe the tensions between the wolves and dragons but his love of the Stark’s brought no pleasure to his aunt who saw it as another slight, bitterness a thorn she could not pull free.

‘One wrong move from anyone and like a vat of wildfire the flames will consume us all.’ was an apt discription as far as she was concerned; It was so terrible of a weight it kept Sansa up night after night.

Her ears caught scuffling from the heavy oaken door, shattering her train of thought. New it may have been but it was no quieter than the oldest in the keep. There in the gloom, large yellow and piercing green eyes cut a path through the dark, settling down at the bottom of the bed, their large heads resting at her feet.

Once she never would have believed that gangly limbed Arya could move so quietly, the dip of her weight, even and steady as she settled against her left side. Rickon was louder, heavier as he dropped like a stone to her right, arms thrown around her middle.

“You think so loudly, we could hear you through wood and stone.” Arya grumbled.

“Someone has to do the thinking.” The teasing lilt of her voice was interloped by a long suffered yawn.

“And _someone_ can do their thinking in the morn.” Arya huffed, her cold toes skimming Sansa’s legs in rebuke.

Rickon, never one for subtlety gave away the feeble ruse, yawning as he spoke. “We were just lonely.”

"Says you!" But Arya nestled closer all the same

Though they had lost much, time and circumstances robbing them of their years together, death leaving holes where loved ones once stood. The Starks that did remain were bound tightly, each one leaning on the strength of the other. Moments like this were a balm, soothing her wayward thoughts and driving back the meddlesome worries for another time.

A lull settled over them, Rickon already having dozed off not long after he had dropped into the bed like a stone, the sound of his deep breaths, the rise and full of his back beneath her arm like the purr of a kitten. In time, Sansa too began to drift, the fingers that had stroked over Arya’s calloused hand stilled as the longed for oblivion began to wash over her. Time was lost then, holding no meaning.

She dreamt of the Godswood, the fog that rose from the steaming springs curling around her feet and slinking about the trunks of the great trees, the blood red leaves of the heart tree bright in the murk. There, admist the leaves lurked a conspiracy of ravens, nested in the boughs, silent watchful companions of the somber faced tree.

It was murmur in her dreams, found among those red leaves; A voice she seldom heard but often longed for whispered there. “Bran.” Sansa smiled; for even if they could only meet in dreams she was glad, but her joy was short lived, for his voice was nearly drowned out by the sound of the sea that rose from around them.

Such was the clamor that she strained to hear him.

“...They came from beyond the Land of Always Winter. Sansa, you must go to them.” Though his mastery grew with every year it was a great strain for him to interact with her so directly, but Sansa’s dreams were the most open of them all now where once she had been as remote as the Eyrie itself.

He felt the fear that rippled through the fabric of her dreams that he wove with great effort.

“Are they a danger?” her voice faltered, the possibilities his words brought with him a lance of terror to her heart. As far as they knew the Others had been extinguished when the three dragons flew with riders once more…but  if they still lingered, lurking in the snow where men still feared to tread, plans would have to be made for she would not wait for them to mount another attack, they could not afford to wait.

The water that had ever filled the pools of the godswood began to rise, filling the woods until it seemed like the sea, cold and tugging at the cloth of her night dress as the crows that perched in the bows of the tree mimicked the cries of seagulls.

“…I do not know for I cannot see where they came from.” But he had seen them coming from a scraggly tree clinging to life on a Cliffside by the sea, deep in the depths of the land that winter always reigned.  Far off and nearly blocked out by the falling snow he had seen them through a haze, a ship tossed about in the bleak, cold sea. it was like nothing he had ever seen before and so he had followed it on a whim from tree to tree, and raven to hawk and everything in between until at last they came to shore.

They were no ordinary Sailors, for not only had they come on a strange ship, even the words they spoke were different. As far off as he was, he had not been able to hear them well, but through they spoke in familiar tones, the words seemed jumbled together, and so now he reached into Sansa’s dreams as he had done before and would many times more, for there was no fog in her head, not anymore. “They’re something…different; seek for them on Bear Island.”

He could not hold the tenuous threads anymore, control slipping through his grasp the more she worried.

The questions she had would go unanswered by him, the conspiracy took wing, blotting out her vision in waves of black.

She woke, limbs tangled and heart pounding, arms striking out much to the displeasure of her bed-fellows.

“Seven hells!” Arya shrieked having caught a wayward hand to the face. 

Rickon who had escaped unscathed snickered. “Not so quick after all!” his mirth garnered a scowl that promised swift retribution--a thought that soon quieted his laughter, his eyes drifting away to study the eldest of them. “You don’t look well.” His hands already as worn by work as any man’s even at the young age of ten turned Sansa’s face this way and that.

“That’s really not something you should say to a lady first thing in the morning. You ought to remember that in the future.” While diffusion and distraction were easy tools in her arsenal against most, she lacked the conviction needed to apply them to those closest to her.

“What did you dream of?” The unconventional girl, who preferred to cut them down rather than to dance around pretenses—even those designed for her own comfort questioned. She saw the way Sansa’s eyes lingered at the windows, far away and full of too much thought, too much worry. ‘When I said she could think in the morning I didn’t mean at first light!’

Sansa paused at the edge of the bed, one foot on the floor, between Nymeria and Shaggydog who saw fit to press their cold noses to the flesh of her calf and ankle. The words she spoke would hold much weight. “Of Bran, of something new...” She said at last, dropping her other foot to the floor.

“What do you mean by new? A new what? ” Arya huffed. 'Do things always have to be so mysterious?'

It was terribly early. ‘Much too early for such a weighty conversation…’ Sansa thought wishing she could slip back to bed, she hated the thought of waking up one of the maids to help her dress. “I suppose I should have said someone, rather than something…”

“Someone? What you mean to say is _Strangers_! I hope they’re the good sort of strangers, because the last… _Visitors_ Bran gave us a warning about were awful.” Rickon scowled. “Very unwelcome guests if I do say so myself.” The growling of Shaggydog punctuated just what he thought about the aforementioned guests.

“Are you talking about the lizards with wings or the Other ones?” Arya pondered, ignoring the reproachful look Sansa gave her. ‘It’s not my fault that woman is insufferable.’ Thinking everything was owed to her by virtue of who she was, even Jon. ‘Jon who was ours, was _mine_ before anyone even knew who he was.’

“Both.” Rickon grumbled.

“You should both be more…appreciative.” Although it was becoming increasingly hard as the years turned. ‘If one cannot say something pleasant it is far better to say nothing.’ She thought, washing her face and hands at the basin, the cold water driving away the shadows of sleep.

“Oh, I am very appreciative. The Mother of Dragons, helped save us from certain doom—wonderful. Now if only she didn’t have a stick up her arse.” A very big stick that bore the names; self-important, entitled, short sighted, and covetous as far as Arya was concerned.

“Rickon, perhaps you ought to let these two out for a while?” Sansa gestured to the two massive forms of fur and sinew that were no longer content to lounge upon the floor and listen to the chatter of their charges. Shaggydog was nosing about her open armoire while Nymeria contemplated the delicate bottles and bits that lined her vanity.

“He just thinks you ought to pick the grey one.” Yet he hustled out of bed all the same.

“It’s sage.” Sansa corrected, planting a kiss on his cheek as he swept by. “More green then grey.”

No matter what she said it still looked grey to him but he liked the way she’d sewn wispy white cloth to the collar and bodice in the shape of little white flowers. “If you say so.” He grinned, lingering for a while longer beneath her touch, nose bumping her cheek.

Sansa recalled that there was a time when he seemed half mad in his wildness, a small thing full of anger and wants he knew not how to put into words.

The difficulties of Sweetrobin had in fact served well to prepare her for those of Rickon’s. ‘All trials serve their purpose in the end.’ She thought, patting his wayward curls before he raced from the room, wolves loping behind him. He was still tempestuous, having moods and fits of anger that could shake even the most stalwart of men, distrustful of nearly everyone, protective of himself and more so of what remained of his family.  ‘But a good boy…now If only he would take more of an interest in learning how to navigate murky political waters.’

Turning hopeful eyes towards Arya, she opened her mouth. “Help me dress?”

"Fine." It is good, to feel that she can be of use even in the mundane acts of Sansa' days. Rarely the sums would fall to her, or seeing to some matter that had already been reviewed would be given to her to settle, but for the most part Arya was free to spend her days as she pleased.

There were days she wished to do more, when the shadows were dark at Sansa' eyes, her painted, practiced smile too brittle to deceive. 'But I don't have the patience.' Nor did she want the guilt that would surely come when she inevitably mucked up. 'Better to do what I'm good at.' Which was being unnoticed until it was too late.

No, being in the open did not suit her at all.

With minimal hassle she helped Sansa prepare for the day, fingers snugly tying the corset and then the back of the dress shut. Arya held out her hand, fingers wiggling. "I might as well finish the rest. Give the brush here...but don't expect anything fancy." It would end up as a mess of knots if she dared to try.

The silver brush slid through Sansa' hair with an ease she envied, nary a tangle to be found, the color filling her with intense longing as it often did for the mother they lost. Where her own hair ended just below her shoulders, Sansa' traveled in waves of copper and red down her back to the swell of her hips.

Just as soon as she started, she was done, having pulled the top halves into two simple twining braids and left the rest free. Simple and easy, something even Arya could do.

"Thank you. You did well." Sansa said, standing from the settee and motioning for her to sit. "I'll take care of you now." 

The words held meaning beyond just hair, but in all things. No matter what happened, no matter who or what came, Sansa would keep them safe by any means necessary. Beneath the pretty clothes and delicate smiles, beneath the well thought out words and pleasantries she was cloaked steel, a she-wolf in lamb’s wool.

Her fingers combed through Arya’s hair first, tugging gently at the knots and smoothing out the snarls before taking the brush to the smaller ones, fingers lingering here or there as they worked, drawing out the quiet time they shared. Humming as she worked, weaving the hair to be lovely but simple and sturdy, mindful of Arya’s nature.

When she was done, she perused the knick-knacks that littered the vanity for a moment, pulling the dropper from a small crystal vial, fragrant with some sweet flower Sansa anointed Arya’s wrists and then her own.

In their youth the thought of sharing anything with reckless Arya would have been unthinkable- and brushing her hair a gauntlet of patience for the both of them. She wished, not for the first time that she had been wiser in her youth, that they both had been a little kinder. ‘I have wished a great many things and only lived to see one or two come true.’ And she was glad to be blessed by even that number.

“I have a letter to write...I will try to join you both at the table.” Although there was no telling what concerns would crop up between now and then.

If someone were to ask either Rickon or Arya if they begrudged or envied Sansa in her unofficial role, the answer would be a resounding no. ‘Irregular meals, constant complaints and troubles, rushing from here to there, the ploys and plots and scrabbling for power and leverage…when did things become so…messy?’ and Arya knew a thing or two about messes.

A pair of suede, fur lined slippers were the last to be added before Sansa swept from the room, her skirts brushing by the maid that was just arriving. Calm and collected to the world around her, a troubled mind toiled over the pending letter and the ripples that would soon spring forth.

When she at last sat at the desk in what had been her father’s solar, she waited for some time, the blank, butter yellow parchment staring up at her, eager  for words.

Gratitude to the Mormont’s was first paid in ink, for they had ever served her family—had served her loyally and vocally despite those who whispered and itched at the thought of a woman attending to matters traditionally reserved for a man. Their support past and present was an invaluable asset.

She asked genuinely-- not out of courtesy of the wellbeing of the household and province, before at last coming to a simple question about receiving any recent visitors before signing her name in the coiling way she had spent long hours perfecting as a girl.

Sealed and addresses, Sansa watched the well natured maester Jon had sent them attach it to a raven who with the ruffle of his wings, and the gleaming of his eyes disappeared from her sight in the early hours of the morning, cleaving through the great stretch of land that separated her from answers to her pressing concerns.

Whether it was hours or days, she would feel no relief until a response was in her hands and plans and contingencies could be planned.  
   
‘Waiting is the worst business.’ Sansa thought in misery, listening to Sam extoll about the newest antics of his wife and children.


	2. The Sea to The Shore

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which strangers meet and the horizon broadens.

Although she was an old woman, Maege Mormont remained stout and hale; she had served Ned Stark and the son after that. ‘And now I serve the daughter.’ Who despite her looks had proven to be more like her father and those that came before her than many had assumed. Those who begrudged her the lack of combat prowess, or thought her weak for her gender had never seen her use words like well concealed knives or stand before men many times her size and age, as impassive as a sheet of ice.

It was on Bear Island that she attended to her holdings as she had before the wars, minus a daughter but her aches and pains multiplied. Maege kept watch of the sea and an ear on the ground—taking note of things of interest and dealing justice when it needed dealing. she took joy in hunting and feasting with what remained of her children, the days of peace passing as she savored them.

Then they came, strange men rowing their way onto her shores, ship moored in the sea. Soaked to the bone, half frozen and starved—clearly driven mad by the sea and speaking in tones she strained to understand.

Still, they made such a miserable sight she took pity on them and had them escorted to the smoky hall of her keep. They were skittish, staring at the bread and salt that was offered in confusion. 'Not uncommon these days, thanks to that massacre. People can no longer trust in the right. Where once you could offer and be offered any morsel and think yourself safe we're now as literal and overt as we can be.' she attempted to question them about what brought them to her shores, but as far as she was concerned their response was gibberish. 

They asked, not for the first time about Arda-something or another. “I don’t know what that is.” She said tersely and at once there was a great uproar that left her wondering why she had the luck to have such strangers come awash to her shore.

More strange words were uttered, The Bay of Belfalas, Gondor, Umbar, The Hither and The Dark Lands, The Great Sea, and on-wards they went, only to be met by her own confusion.

In the middle of explaining, or rather attempting to correct the ship’s Captain whose name she eventually discerned to be Barthogan, a letter was pressed to her hands by Alysane, The Stark wolf grinned up at her from the pressed white wax for only a beat after which she promptly broken open only to be much surprised by the contents within. 

Sansa Stark had a way of knowing things; whether it was some mundane, trivial fact or bit of gossip about this or that. She could tell one with clarity what the political machinations and aspirations of so and so were and more interestingly she was the type of person who knew the things she shouldn’t be capable of knowing.

‘Little use in asking how she knew.’ People speculated, as they often did about the Starks—that there was something decidedly mystical about Sansa, but little could be proven and questions only earned beguiling smiles and cryptic answers. ‘Half the folk think she can change shape and the other think she’s the Maiden come again.’ Maege thought, knowing that as in all tall stories there might be a bit of truth in both versions of the Stark girl.

Like her father, like her brother had tried to be, she was just. When there was room for compassion and mercy, it was given—and when the time for justice demanded vengeance, she paid it forward, somber and steady with her own hands. Even behind her pretty smiles and sweet words, there was a cunning her family lacked in general.

They were qualities that she found admirable. ‘Wise is the female who makes herself more deadly than the male, whether by hand or by word.’  The odd lord here or there grumbled that the girl intended to unseat her brother in the line of inheritance, making her position as regent more permanent. ‘And perhaps she does, and perhaps that would be for the best...’

Just last year during the harvest feast the boy had taken a hefty chunk out of Roose Ryswell’s left arm for some vague, unsavory comments he’d made about his sister—and that was one case out of many when it came to Rickon Stark. ‘Although I suppose Roose ought to be glad it wasn’t the younger sister who got to him first.’ people who upset Arya Stark had a funny way of having misfortune fall over them in varying degrees.

People had quickly learnt to keep their mouths shut lest they wanted to lose a few fingers, not by wolf some great hulking wolf, but by surly boy. The time spent on Skagos left Rickon more than a little wild and quick to violence.

By large as long as it was a Stark and they held true to their ways the lords—and ladies were glad to serve. There were still whispers of naming the girl Queen in the North, spoken in half hushed tones and with loosened lips, rumors she would personally embrace if the time ever came. ‘I named her brother a King of Winter, but perhaps the title is more suited to her.’

After all, it had been Sansa Stark who held the together the shattered remnants of the Riverlands and that of her father’s realm. It had been her who rallied the Lords of the Vale and brought them down from the mountains at last.

Her timely and much needed advent had brought the combined forces of the Vale and those of the River lords who could still fight, putting Westeros to a standstill. Pushing north they had torn through the Frey’s and Bolton’s before sweeping to the wall to aide in its dire plight. That act alone had bought them precious time before the dragons at last crossed the Narrow Sea. Sansa had been no more than a girl then, surely only a few years into her flowering. 

If there had been even the slightest of delay in that course of action there was no telling if they would have endured in the end, if there would even be a world left for them to slowly rebuild. 

Her own writing lacked the finesse of her liege lady, succinct and to the point.  Her girls were blessedly well, though restless and rowdy as ever. Nothing of great note had happened. ‘Besides of course, these wayward seafarers.’  Maege’s shrewd eyes never strayed far from her guests, watching them whenever she could. None would accuse her of being inattentive.

On the third day of their stay after the raven’s had been sent back and forth many times, just as she was beginning to wonder what was to be done with them in the long term, an answer presented itself.

“It has been a very long time since the bears last hosted wolves in these halls.” She tried in vain to recall when last it was, but the effort was wasted.

At her words, youngest Lyanna nearly spilled her drink all over the long table. “Do you mean to say that the Starks are to come here?!” Her voice rose excitedly.

“One Stark.” Alysane corrected, after reading the letter over her mother’s shoulder. A teasing grin sneaking over her face; her littlest sister was full of admiration for this particular Stark. ‘Might as well be her nameday celebration.’ Her eyes strayed to her children, tussling on the great bear rug by the hearth.

“The Queen in the North is coming here!” Lyanna exclaimed, standing so abruptly she nearly tripped over the bench behind her knees.

Jory huffed, tugging her sister back to her seat by the sleeve. “We are not supposed to call her that.” She whispered, her eyes darted to Barthogan and his companions. Even far out on their little island, one could never tell who was listening and who they would run their mouth to.

“Everyone knows it’s true…” Lyanna grumbled, retaking her seat. “When will she arrive?” she questioned, full of the exuberance youth brought with it.

“A week or there about…if she’s departed as quickly as her letter claims.” Although Maege had the feeling she’d be having a difficult time getting leave from her siblings. ‘The two of them are like guard dogs…and then throw in the third one, and it’ll be a right mess.’ It was a wonder Sansa Stark got anywhere on time.

Barthogan was a well-traveled man, whether by sea or by land. He’d spent his life going to and fro, seeking fortune and sometimes glory where he could. ‘And this is by far the strangest adventure I have had.’ He thought to himself, listening intently. Their accents were strange to his ears, the words difficult to pick up when first they came ashore.

What had started out as a trip from Belfalas to the port of Lond Daer had quickly become rather complicated, he’d gone further out to sea then he would have liked in an attempt to avoid the few Corsairs that still plagued the coasts. ‘And then that storm came from nowhere, sweeping us even further out.’ It was as though the winds of Manwë himself were in their sails; Ulmo in the deep, his steady hands guiding the strong currents that pulled them further and further out to sea off into the unknown, the air growing colder and the skies grayer.

The stars which had ever been his guide were in disarray. ‘Aye, each one where they always were but there seem to be then I recall; numerous brighter pins of light shining in the heavens.’ Certainly it had done nothing to help him gain his bearings when the stars were how he navigated.

Many were the days that had passed at sea; even their emergency provisions had been exhausted. Ice in the air and in the water, with little food to be found he began to wonder if they had been forsaken, when on the distant horizon land at last met his eyes.

With weak, cold touched limbs they rowed to shore only to be met with a group clothed in bear furs, wielding bows and an assortment of other weapons. ‘And to think some of them were even women!’ it was rather scandalous.

He and his men now sat in a smoky, wooden longhouse on an island he had never heard of, with people who claimed to possess no knowledge of what Arda even was much to his own disbelief. Still, they had been kind; offering them food and shelter, appropriately clothing them against the cold. ‘While they are strange, they seem to be good folk.’

“Don’t worry.” Lyanna whispered, breaking him from his thoughts with an invigorating smile. “The Starks have a way of putting things to right. You’ll see.”

Days more would pass until at last the much lauded Stark was to arrive, the entire household, servants and all had been rushed outside into the blustery cold. Even in their heavy gifted furs he and his company shivered.

“The fore-rider said they’d be right behind them, that was like…hours ago.” Lyanna could be heard complaining before someone—likely to be Jory stepped on her foot and a minor scuffle broke out.

Voices called across the yard, the great wooden gate that encircled them slowly began to open for a retinue of robust horses to ride through. They numbered over twelve in total, carrying a pure white banner; a grey creature of jagged teeth and sharp edges roaring in the wind.

A lovely, pale face turned to him from the heavy brim of its fur hood. Two large, bright blue eyes peered into his own.

"That," Lyanna murmured with awe. "Is the Qu-uh, I mean Lady Stark." She coughed when an elbow nudged her ribs. “The armored one is Brienne of Tarth..She’s like a giant! Almost as big as the Umber’s…" And what she wouldn't give to be a few inches taller, sitting at the side of a Stark.

"I fail to see what all the fuss is about." The Third rider spoke after a moment. The wind tussled his golden hair.

"No one asked you what you saw Jaime." The broad, towering woman in armor spoke, if it had not been for her voice he might have surely taken her to be a man with the strength of her features and bulk.

'Is it so common for women to dawn armor and arm themselves in this place?' Barthogan wondered for even the Mormonts went about on occasion in leathers and breeches, a weapon never far from their reach.

"Ah yes, I'm just a spare hand as it were." The man stated wryly holding up a stiff gloved hand before swinging himself off his mount.

It was by Brienne’s strong hands that the Lady was helped from her horse, although she did not reach the stature of her companion, she was of height, and when she pulled back the heavy hood of fur, he thought for the briefest of moments he was looking at one of Mahtan’s kin—it was only till he saw the curve of her ears that the notion was truly dispelled.

‘It is the girl’s eyes.’ Barthogan thought, for though her face was young and sweet, her eyes were older and seemed to see more than they had any right to. She lacked for no grace as she closed the distance between herself and Maege.

The two shared a fond greeting, delicate, gloved hands resting on the stocky shoulders of the old bear, pulling her from her bow. “I am glad to see you well with my own eyes.”

Meage hummed appreciably. “And I am certainly glad to be seen well.” Still she took a good look at her liege, taking note of the changes that occurred since the last Harvest feast she’d attended. ‘A bit taller, a bit wearier to be sure…’ and she was sure the girl had lost a bit of weight, which in her opinion was no good at all.

Greetings and courtesies were further exchanged as Sansa carried out the duties befitting her station. It wouldn’t do to leave anyone feeling snubbed, no matter how high or low they were.  
   
Jory made a soft noise from further down the line. "Ah, there is Beren Tallhart!"

There was a quiet murmur from his group at the familiar name, but the sounds soon grew more alarmed when a great shade of black came galloping through the gates. It was no pony, though it was surely about the size of one if not bigger. Steam poured from its mouth and nose in great plumes, teeth the size of a man’s fingers showed for all to see. “A warg!” and yet, not one of the men within the yard besides his own seemed inclined to draw steel. ‘And yet we’ve no steel to draw…’

'How could they know just by looking at him that Shaggy belonged to a Warg?' Sansa wondered. ‘No…they thought he _was_ the Warg itself.’ She wondered what the term meant to them, for clearly it was different then her own understanding.

The creature crossed the enclosure, green eyes pinned to him. There was a fury lurking within them and he was half sure it'd take a leap for them at any second. Yet it sat itself at the girl’s side like a well-trained hound, pink tongue lolling out the side of its mouth.

"There is nothing for you to fear from him…Barthogan was it?" Sansa laid a gloved hand on the large furry head that bumped against her elbow. Sitting on his hindquarters Shaggy was nearly as tall as she was and twice as heavy. 'At least as long as there is nothing for me to fear from you...'  But those were words she would not say as she offered them a kindly smile. “I hear that you have had a very long voyage…will you tell me of it inside?”

“A-aye that’s me…” Forty two years had he lived and yet he never felt as humble or awkward in his own skin as when he offered her his arm. ‘Not a drop of great blood within me, yet I’m treating with what is at most a highborn Lady, if not a Queen.’  A queen who held sway over a beast that had the look of Carcharoth himself.

The party was bustled inside to the warmth of the longhouse and out of the cold, black wolf at the heels of its lady until they were sat at the raised high table where bread and salt were brought once more. Shaggydog as he was called curled behind her seat, green eyes ever watching.

While they had been offered the bread and salt on the first of their nights in that strange land, he still did not understand the great importance they placed on it, a curiosity he finally gave voice to.

Sansa’s fingers plucked at her piece of bread, salt beneath her nails. "It is one of our oldest and nearest held traditions. Bread and salt are the most iconic offerings, but it truly applies to any food or drink the guest is given freely from the host while beneath their roof.” The piece of bread was held aloft within the cusp of her hand. “It is a promise, neither the host nor the guest will visit harm upon the other while in company. Those who violate it are said to be cursed by the gods—old and new alike.” A hush fell through the room, somber and heavy.

There was no way to separate the fury from the sorrow that could be glimpsed upon the faces around him. There was a story in the silence that he wondered at. ‘There are so many things I do not know…’ not for the first time, Barthogan felt himself floundering in the weight of it all. ‘I want to go home, to my wife and children.’ And his men no doubt felt the same. His sorrow was halted when a piece of bread was pressed into his hand.

“For now eat and take heart.” Sansa said, her fingers closing over his own. “When the feasting is done, we will begin making sense of things.” Her eyes were steady and words resolute. “All will be made right in time.”

What was held within his hand was no mere piece of bread, but a promise and he gladly accepted it.

When the cups ran dry and the dishes were swept away, the last of the children carted off to bed and the hall emptied of all but those of importance they were left only with the eldest Mormonts, he, his crew and the Lady Sansa with her entourage.  The map a few of his men had at last been allowed to fetch from the ship was laid upon the table. It was soon joined by another, rolled out by Sansa’s own hands.

“We are here.” she placed a finger on the small island they’d come ashore to. “It’s part of the North, and expands from the Neck to the Wall.” Her finger cut through the Wolfswood, straight on to her home. “And I preside over it all from here; Winterfell.” She gave him the names of the bays and the seas that surrounded them, before heading south down the map dividing it into territories.

“Is that a dragon there?” The first mate of his ship, Alwin wondered as her fingers passed over the three headed dragon emblazoned off the shore of what she deemed to the Crownlands.

“Yes, fitting considering there are in fact three dragons.” Even in the dim light, the pallor of their faces could not be missed, much less the choking of Barthogan on the ale he’d been drinking. “The Crownlands are where Queen Daernery’s resides—Kingslanding to be specific.”

"Do all people in this land hold such sway over beasts?" Barthogan asked at last, sparing a glance to the black shade that still laid at Sansa' feet.

For the first time he heard her laugh, soft and short before it fell away from his ears. "Oh no. Only a small few, some blessed with greater control than others..."

“Are you also not a Queen?” One of the young deckhands asked, for she certainly had the grace and dignity of one. Of course the lad had probably never seen an actual Queen, even in passing.

In the manner of those wishing to avoid a direct answer, she opted for a more…subtle approach. “There are those that would name me such. Whether I am a Queen or a Lady my duties and priorities do not change.” In Sansa’s opinion it was best to steer as clear of Westeros’ murky political waters as possible, especially when they were choppy at best. “Tell me of your own land?” she gestured to the second map.

“There are many kings where we come from…Middle-earth that is. But the High King of Men is Elessar Telcontar who presides over the reunited kingdom or Gondor and Arnor.” It was strange to explain such things.

“The King of Men?” Sansa pondered the distinction for a moment, prepared to dismiss it as a stylistic title until Barthogan continued.

“Yes well, the Elves and Dwarves have their own leaders and Hobbits do not style themselves as kings like most do…they have chieftains I believe.”  The captain mused, realizing how little he himself knew of the halflings.

“Dwarves?!” Maege cried out. “They’ve founded a kingdom of their very own?” It seemed like such a strange concept she could scarcely believe it.

“I’m sure my brother would be glad of such news.” Jaime laughed from down the table both at the absurdity of such a notion, and the bitter truth that lurked within it. “If only he’d found his way there sooner!”

“Are dwarves not also considered men where you come from? And I have never heard of “Elves” or “Hobbits.” for that matter.” It would not surprise her if a dwarf was looked at so unkindly in his land that they were ejected from society itself. ‘But to found an entire kingdom of their own…?’

Barthogan looked to his men, as speechless as he was in that moment. It astounded him how little they knew. ‘And yet how little _we_ know of them...’ There was no room for him to judge their ignorance when he himself was abounding with it. “Perhaps,  it would be best to start at the beginning.” The very beginning, when the Valar first sang Eru Ilúvatar’s will into being.

Long into the night they went, till the candles wound low to the wick and the hearth was naught but embers did they speak, awe and confusion like the roll of the tide, ebbing and flowing without fail.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for the Kudos, and the comments and even the views! It really pushed me into getting this up much faster then I expected. Its really a joy to see so much thought being put into whats going on.
> 
> I know, I know. You're probably crying because you got random strangers from ME rather then anyone of importance or interest! Don't worry though, in the next 2-or so chapters we finally get to see them. 
> 
> Lyanna is a Hardcore Stark loyalist--we share that in common. 
> 
> It is a super bad idea to try and figure out the geography of all this ( I tried and I regretted it.) It was a painful endeavor...I did something funny with 2 names present in this chapter. If someone can figure it out, it might earn them a sneak preview of the next chapter.
> 
> So yea, as always lemme know what you thought!


	3. A Tidal Jet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A moment of perceived brilliance strikes Daenerys and she unwittingly sets the pieces in motion.

  
Kingslanding was thoroughly impossible to get used to, no matter how much time passed he would always long for cold winds and grey skies.  
  
‘I never thought I would leave the wall, much less the north…even in my wildest dreams I never considered something like _this_.’ He never wanted it either.  Nearly his whole life Jon had wished to be a trueborn son. ‘And now I just wish I were Ned Stark’s bastard son again…’Even now in technicality he was just the baseborn son of another man, one he had never known.

Aegon was nice, but he was not Robb nor could he ever be. There was a distance between them kept by the unspoken knowledge that it had been Jon’s mother who had led to the undoing of their father, to the destruction of the life Aegon could have had. ‘It is a distance that no matter how hard she tries Dany cannot compel us to close.’ Not anymore than she could bridge the gap between herself and Aegon. 

Nor could she force him to stop being Jon and start being Jaehaerys. Fur was not so easily exchanged for scaled hide in the end. His father or not, Ned Stark was the only parent he had ever known. ‘And yet I cannot escape my blood.’ The only time he ever felt even half a Targaryen was when he graced the back of Viserion, the wind screaming past him as they cut through the air. 

It was also the only time he felt truly free so far south. The sweltering, stinking heat of the city, and the grasping, clawing courtiers felt like chains. ‘And yet, I have duties here.’ Jon thought grimly. He could run, he could flee North and go home. ‘But there is good I can do the Starks here yet, even if I cannot be one in name.’ that desire kept him bound here—and perhaps some part of him wanted to know the family that could have been his in another life.

There were seven members as expected, yet Jon could not help but question some of those who had been appointed. ‘Naharis for instance, is it really appropriate to put your lover in the position of safeguarding your life?' at best it was a terrible conflict of interest, at worst it left her vulnerable to betrayal. 

In truth, many of those most capable had died and Dany had been left to fill the positions with those available. If Ser Barristan Selmy or even the unsullied known as Grey Worm had lived, they surely would have taken the position in Daario's place. 

Only just recently had he himself been tasked as the Master of laws. ‘And I often wonder if it was out of actual aptitude on my part, the inability to find anyone more suitable, or even just another ploy to make me feel beholden to hear.’ No matter which it was Jon found little joy in his post, though he honored and labored to do right by it if only for the smallfolk who would suffer the most if he failed.

Tyrion Lannister had retaken the position of Hand a choice that Jon could not argue with except for personal reasons. He could never forgive the Lannisters for that they had done to the Starks. 'How Sansa lets Jaime of all people serve as a guard is beyond me.' She had more reason than any of them to want every Lannister dead, yet she'd pardoned the one handed man, going as far to allow him to stay by her.

Marwyn served as the Grandmaester, and yet sometimes Jon wondered if he was not better suited to the realm of whispers. Instead that task fell to a young Man named Alleras who had also studied at the citadel around the same time as Sam. ‘and yet even Sam seems to know little of him…The sphinx is an apt name for one who is more then they seem...’

Massendei took on the role of Coin in addition to a myriad of other things she did for the Queen. She was always busy for one so young. 

To be Master of Ships fell to Aegon—he did well in the post after spending nearly a lifetime at sea but it was little consolation for the crown he felt had been stolen from him.

Before them on the table sat the reason for their gathering; It was a terribly long missive, several pages in length. Sansa’s normally neat and perfectly spaced writing was slightly cramped together in some places in an attempt to save room for more words. He grieved for her wrist; for Jon was sure it ached by the end of writing it all. 

“It is not beyond the realm of possibility that there are lands unknown to us…The farthest that has ever been sailed in the Sunset Sea is to the Lonely Light.” Aegon’s eyes were alight with the very prospect, shifting through the papers until he came across the map that Sansa had copied with her own hands. The known world to them just the day before had consisted of Westeros, Essos, Sorthoyos,Ulthos and numerous islands. ‘And even much of what we know is yet unmapped.’  He thought, pondering the prospects of it all.

Jon recalled that there had once been a Brandon Stark known as the Shipwright who had tried to sail across the Sunset Sea only to never return again. ‘His tomb in the crypts is empty, and his son burned all the ships.’ It was the last time the Starks and the North by large had any force at sea until just recently. ‘And even now its numbers are few and slowly growing.’

"And yet if her letter is to be believed they did not come from the Sunset Sea, but the Shivering one.” Dany remarked at last, turning from the window she had been glancing through.

“Even that has been much unexplored, people have long feared to go beyond the wall whether by land or by Sea.” Aegon spoke. “Beyond the cold water and the dangerous ice that lurks in it, who knows what else is there.”

“You doubt her word?” Jon did not look away when faced with her disapproval. ‘I will not parrot back only the things you wish to hear.’ His stony expression spoke his thoughts.

"What cause do I have to do otherwise?" Dany tossed back, temper rising. “She tells us what she wants, when it pleases her to do so.” It was a constant source of utter frustration. “This could just be one of her little ploys.”  
  
“She _is_ particularly good at rooting out spies.” Alleras’s breath whispered, perhaps in admiration or frustration. ‘Not to mention planting her own it seems.’  
  
Tyrion laughed and gestured towards the stack of papers. "I think that this is a bit too...detailed to be a fabrication of her making. Even more importantly, what would she gain from it?”  
  
“What was the point in her telling us?” Daario barely suppressed a yawn. “None of it makes any sense to me.”  
  
‘I doubt anything besides fucking and killing makes much sense to you.’ Tyrion thought, clearing his throat. “Well, if I had to make a guess I would assume that the possibility of a beautiful, near immortal race of beings, strong beyond measure trying to storm the lands of Westeros is a bit...familiar, wouldn’t you say so? She’s no doubt covering her bases.”   
  
A barely suppressed flinch found its way to Jon’s burnt fingers at the thought.  
  
“Point taken.” The former sellsword fell silent. It felt as though the whole room had plunged in temperature at the mere mention of the creatures.  
  
“Terribly fascinating these elves are.” Marwyn stated at last, his smile unveiling his red stained teeth.  
  
Jon did not want to know what thoughts made the strange man grin so.  
  
Tyrion snorted. “I’m rather more interested in the dwarves. Do you think I would be considered comely by their standards?” he questioned the young girl at his side, rewarded by the vaguest of twitches at Missandei’s lips.  
  
“They aren’t _your_ sort of dwarf.” Jon sighed, wondering if there would ever be a time Tyrion could reframe from making jokes. ‘Besides I think you are short even by them.’

“Close enough, we’re both short. They like mining, I happen to own mines.” Tyrion shrugged from across the table. “I’m sure we would get along splendidly."  
  
“It’s very much desired that I be able to speak to these poor wayward souls. There is much we could learn from one another if given the chance.” The Grandmaester tapped his heavy fingers upon the table top, thoughts buzzing.  
  
  
"Send for them.” Daenerys demanded, . “I should see them with my own eyes, rather than some letter.”  
  
This time Jon could not hide his grimace. “It’s a bit too late for that. The letter is dated more than few moons ago…and there is a bit by the end, where she says she’s seeing them off...”  
  
To her credit, his aunt did not fly into a fury though he saw the storm brewing in her eyes.

"As it is we're spread thin, the territories in Essos are insistent on trying to return to their old ways." Even years after conquering Mereen they still struggled; whenever her focus seemed to drift away from them towards more pressing matters they were sure to attempt an uprise.

Long had the Starks been a thorn in her side. They were the reason her blood had almost been completely wiped out. 'Them, the Baratheons and the Arryns.' Only bastards remained of the stags, the Arryns numbered one and the Starks still went on strong.

'Too strong.' Dany thought, scowling. If at any moment Sansa had the desire, she could take nearly half the kingdom with her. Her uncle in Riverrun would follow and the Arryn boy in the Vale would jump to it just as quickly.

"What right did she have to do so?!" The Queen snapped, pacing across the floor, silk rustling in her wake.

It was an unending duty, always having to be the voice of reason when it came to the Starks and Targaryens. So it was a relief whenever someone spoke on the subject before him. Jon almost sighed in relief.

"Considering the current...climate throughout the kingdom, we might be thankful she bothered to send word at all. We have not been generous with her ourselves."  The wedge between North and South was a great one and much of it could be placed on them. 'Or more accurately the queen alone. My hands are clean of this. It was not me who offered Jon Winterfell a second time, before Sansa Stark’s very eyes, as though it were some paltry gift to earn the affections of a child.'

It was a bitter slight to the Starks and the North at large one they would not soon forget. 'Nor will they forget the botched attempt to marry her off to some lesser, easily controlled lord as soon as Tyrion had the annulment finalized.' Instead his aunt has overstepped herself, driving a wedge between nearly half their dynasty.

"What need do I have to be generous with her?" Even here, where her will should be greatest Sansa Stark still seemed to hold sway. 'When will it be that this wheel is broken at last?'  So often she felt like an outsider in the very place that was meant to be her home.

Before she had ever stepped foot upon Westerosi soil she has been so sure that the foes of her family would all be laid low and the people of Westeros would rejoice. ' The Baratheons are down to bastards, the Kingslayer hides behind that woman's skirt while his brother serves me, but out of them all the Starks flourish best. Even the Arryns are down to one sickly Youngman.' There was no justice in it.

Often did she wish the Others had taken Sansa Stark. 'She's certainly cold enough to be one.' Dany griped to herself. 'If I am fire, surely she is ice.'

In her most honest moments when her thoughts took hold over her and hindsight focused on her own actions Dany could see where her prejudice and actions had in part led to the growing drift between North and south. 'I should never have offered Winterfell to Jon, much less in front of her...' yet, even knowing that pride would not let go of Dany. 'I am a Queen and I will not bend before one less than I.' She was fire and the fate of ice was to melt before her heat.  
  
If Tyrion had only remained married to her perhaps Sansa would be less of a foil and more of a boon, in truth the marriage had never been legal to begin with considering his first wife still lived. ‘But it certainly would have been of better use to me.’ Daenerys sighed.

"And what do you intend to so against such a slight? Raze half the kingdom? The moment we look away from Essos it will descend into chaos." Attempting to reestablish hold of the unstable territories in Essos left them vulnerable, and took up many of their resources.

'My life was as irreparably changed by the Starks as her own and yet I would not have enemies of them if it could be helped.' There was much he would do differently if things were set to right and his proper place had not been denied to him. "What does it matter if she sent them away or otherwise?"

"What if they come back? With soldiers the next time? We know nothing of them except what the wolf-bitch tells us, for all we can tell they might look towards an invasion." The knife Daario had been twirling in his hands had a very good chance of being used against him if Jon gave into the desire to leap over the table for his slight.

"Then I will burn them." Dany swore her eyes brighter than before.

Massendei who had been silent for much of the meeting spoke at last; "it's true that we are spread thin...but perhaps an ambassador or envoy of some sort might be sent? Nothing overly large of course."

"It's folly." Tyrion waved a hand dismissively. "They would have to brave uncharted waters, the perilous sea and all its storms...and provided they survive the long journey they would be stuck in a foreign land outnumbered and alone, bereft of any of that might be sent." He knew what much of that felt like. "I would surely pity whatever soul received such a task."

If he only could have known his words would spur what was to come he might never have said them, for a terrible, wonderful thought began to roost in Daenerys' head. "or perhaps it would be seen as an honor." She said smiling slowly, for at last she saw the dawn to her problem. "See if you cannot piece together the course they took from Lady Stark's words." She ordered Marwyn before dismissing herself from the council room.

The way to break the hold Sansa Stark held over the kingdom while keeping her own hands clean had at last presented itself and she could barely contain herself. Without her, the Tullys and the Arryns would be lost and her own way would be clear. ‘At best, she dies at sea, at worst she wastes away in some foreign land…’ Either way it would be advantageous to her.   
  
‘But if she refuses?’ The niggling doubt arose the more Dany entertained the idea. ‘If I give her an ultimatum she cannot refuse or will not risk rejecting…she will comply in the end or risk another war.’  
  
If one thing pleasant could be said of Sansa Stark, it was that while she was a capable leader and though she delicately toed the line of fealty and defiance, dancing around true commitment one way or the other there was something she valued above all else. Something Dany _knew_ she would not risk, even if it meant her own misery.  
  
Her family.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shorter chapter then the other two...but oh well.
> 
> There is a lot of..Irony? I suppose in Dany's idea, considering Ned Stark basically advocated that she herself be left in Essos to while away her days in exile--for her own safety rather then malicious intent. or Maybe the Irony is that it does not turn out like she had hoped it would in the end. 
> 
> The next chapter, we at last get to see Me, so yay for that! 
> 
> Also, many Thanks to Lys for being both my sounding board and my quick-Beta. Much appreciated! 
> 
> I also really appreciate everyone's comments...you guys get super in depth and it makes me giddy,


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